


Not For Sissies

by Mab (Mab_Browne)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Older Lads, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:43:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mab_Browne/pseuds/Mab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old photographs and nostalgia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not For Sissies

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Weekly Obbo Challenge at the Tea and Swiss Roll comm on LJ. Of three possible prompts, the one I used was lapel.

Bodie liked lounging as much as the next lazy git, but there was lounging, and there was being imprisoned in one armchair up on blocks because he wasn’t allowed to flex his brand new artificial hip joint beyond a certain angle. Murph and his wife had sent a get well card, which had featured an elderly Bette Davis festooned in frankly scary blue eyeshadow and the legend “old age ain’t no place for sissies.” Bette sat on the mantle-piece now, presiding over Bodie’s desperate boredom, while Ray, who could move around comfortably and _drive_ , the bastard, did something in the kitchen. Bodie had a reasonable expectation that it involved bacon, and that was something to look forward to, at least.

Before disappearing into the kitchen, Ray had dropped a battered shoebox onto the small, square occasional table beside Bodie’s chair. “Here. Something to while away the empty hours,” he said, before marching into the kitchen. Bodie had a suspicion, just a suspicion, mind, that Ray was suffering through the convalescence process just as much as Bodie.

“What am I supposed to do with this lot?” Bodie had called plaintively to the door. Neither Ray nor the door had deigned to reply, and Bodie sighed, and opened the lid, and groaned. Photographs. Dozens of them, unsorted, of all sizes. “This is cruel and unusual punishment, you know,” he muttered under his breath. 

He surveyed the photographs, trying to figure out what he could do with them that wouldn’t get his supper thrown in his face. He decided chronological sorting was enough to keep the snarl of his beloved down to a low rumble, and became sufficiently engrossed with the task that he stood to move his work to the dining table. He left some of the table uncovered enough to eat dinner – a man had priorities.

Ray bustled in with plates. “Kept you quiet, I see,” he said, and laid the plates down upon the table. “Here, wrap your laughing gear around that.” Bodie noted his single rasher of grilled bacon, the _poached_ egg and the way that an awful lot of the plate seemed to be covered by mushroom and tomato, and picked up his knife and fork. “Looks good,” he said, with about equal amounts of wisdom and truth.

“Too bloody right,” Ray said. “You’re doing the washing-up by the way.”

“Of course,” Bodie said with dignity.

Their meal eaten, Ray stood and cleared the table, and then came back in to consider Bodie’s progress. “Haven’t touched that box in years,” he said.

“I guessed that."

“Hark at him.” But Ray’s hands were gentle on Bodie’s shoulders. He leaned over Bodie, taking a look at some of the pictures lying on top of their respective piles. “Oh my god, look at those lapels.”

Bodie picked up the snap in question. 1975 that was, a successful intake of CI5’s soon to be finest.

“Height of fashion that suit jacket was,” he protested.

“Yes, and you were such a dedicated follower of fashion.”

“Not like some of the scruffs in the squad.” He stared at the picture. Too many of the men and women in it were gone, and gone before their time. Cowley, at least, had enjoyed his Biblical three score and ten. Give it another two years and so would Bodie, not something that he would have laid money on when whoever it was took this. Jax, wasn’t it? He couldn’t remember now, but certainly Jax wasn’t in the group. The young man wearing Bodie’s face might as well be dead, with the gulf of years between him and who Bodie was now. He stared at himself and his comrades, all of them arrogant and beautiful in their youth and strength, and melancholy overtook him.

He turned his head and saw recognition and a grim empathy in Ray’s eyes. Of course Ray would see it too, the way his thoughts always turned like a stir-crazy pet rat on a treadmill. But then the grey-green eyes flashed.

“Never mind, handsome,” Ray said, mixed vinegar and honey as always. “You’ve still got it.” His hand slid down Bodie’s chest and stomach to handle his crotch in a practised manner. That was more than enough. Bodie was sixty-eight, not dead.

“If I’ve still got it, then maybe I should give some of it to you,” he said. It came out unexpectedly affectionate underneath the ribaldry he intended.

Honey, plain and sweet then. “Oh, you do, mate.” Ray placed a quick, gentle kiss between Bodie’s brows. “You do.”


End file.
